Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease (7 page)

Just be yourself.

“
I guess you are all wondering what I’m
doing here?” She paused to let the words sink in. “Well, you’re not
alone. I’m puzzled by it too. And so will be every business
journalist, every supplier, every potential customer who hears that
Constantine Motors is now run by a twenty-six year old ballet
dancer with no business experience.”

As she calmed down
, she started to focus on individual
faces. Some scowled. Some looked startled. A few smiles were
beginning to appear. She concentrated on those. “I have no idea why
Stephan Constantine chose me for this position. But I think I can
contribute to the running of the business. Look around you. Look at
those cars. What do you see?”

People craned
their necks to study the vehicles. Some made
comments to each other. A few shouted out suggestions. She
listened. Memorized. Waited for silence. “Right,” she said. “Class.
Tradition. Technology. Quality. Achievement. Engineering.
Design.”

She spread her hands in
a gesture that encompassed their
surroundings. “Dreams. That is what I see. Something to appeal, not
just to your brain that computes facts and figures, or to your eye
that sees the quality and beauty of the product, but something to
appeal to your heart. Something that meets the craving to own
something special, something that sets you apart, something that
satisfies the dreams you’ve had ever since you opened your first
birthday present, ever since you picked up your first toy. I
believe that we are selling, not just cars, but the fulfillment of
dreams. And ballet is all about dreams. That is why I believe I
have something to contribute.”

Her hands were shaking
, and blood pounded in her ears, but she
was breathing freely, air flowing into her lungs. “To help me with
those other things—engineering and design and facts and figures, I
have a team of great managers, and behind the scenes, Nick
Constantine has agreed to help me. He’ll have no paid position with
the company. He’ll work under me as an unpaid
consultant.”

She turned to him
. “Nick, would you like to say a few
words?”

“
Sure.” He stepped forward, flashed a smile
at the crowd, and spoke in a loud voice that carried without the
help of a microphone. “You heard it. I’ll be working under Miss
Mills.” He winked at her. “I’ve always liked a woman on top.” He
turned back to the audience. “Since I don’t have a formal position,
you’ll not be able to deal directly with me. You can take your
problems to Crimson, and I’ll help her find a solution. And while
I’m involved with her, my main concern will be to keep her
satisfied.”

By now, titters were breaking out in the
crowd.
Crimson gritted
her teeth. Was he paying her back? Humiliating her in public? Damn
him. Damn everything about Nick Constantine. To function normally
around him, she needed to wipe those few hectic minutes in the
boardroom out of her mind, expunge them from her brain, pretend
they never happened. But of course, that would be
impossible.

Nick glanced
back toward her. He was smiling, a small,
placating smile that told her
bear with me, I’ll explain later
. She surveyed the audience. Most faces
had broken into friendly grins. People were at ease, the tension
less palpable. Something bubbled up inside her, a lightness of
having come through the first ordeal in her new position, and
despite her suspicion over his motives, she found herself returning
Nick’s smile.

****

Nic
k lounged in one of the four padded chairs at the small
conference table in the CEO’s office, munching on a chicken
sandwich. Crimson sat behind the pale wood desk, picking at a
salad. After the staff meeting had ended, and they’d retreated into
her office, she had contrived to keep a distance between them, like
two elements that repelled each other.

Guilt
knotted up inside him over how he had blackmailed her into
having sex with him. It complicated an already difficult situation.
No doubt, she hated him for the humiliation he’d put her through.
He, on the other hand, found it hard to look at her without
memories of their fierce coupling crashing over him.

The distraction
was the last thing he needed. In the eight years
since Marcela broke off their engagement, he’d avoided emotional
tangles, instead preferring casual affairs with women who wanted
nothing more than a respectable escort in public and a few nights
of shared pleasure. He couldn’t undo his lapse of judgment with
Crimson, but he would do his best to limit the damage that his
actions had caused.

He cut
the strained silence. “Thanks for taking my innuendo in
your stride.”

She halted,
a forkful of salad poised in the air. “I assumed
there was a purpose.”

“
There was.” He took another bite of the
chicken sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “Raymond told me the place
is crawling with rumors about our encounter in the boardroom
yesterday afternoon. It will take the edge off the speculation if
people think we’re a couple. I wanted to send that
message.”

“
Even if it’s not true.”

“
Even if it’s not true,” he conceded. “It
will be harder for people to trust you, if they think we’re
enemies. A romantic involvement between us explains a lot. Why I’m
hanging around, to start with. Perhaps even why my father left the
business to you.”

Crimson
stirred her salad, eyes downcast. “Should I tell
people what will happen if we fail to meet the profit target? Or is
it better for them not to know?”

Nick
considered the question. “You might want to tell them, but
let them get to know you first.” He wiped his greasy fingers on a
paper napkin and tidied away the sandwich wrapper. “Before we start
the meetings with the directors…” He propped one elbow on the table
and rested his chin on his palm, his free hand toying with the
empty coffee cup. “About yesterday afternoon…I guess I should
apologize, and if there are…repercussions…I want you to know that
I’ll support you through whatever you decide to do.”

She glanced up. A
fiery blush flared up on her face. She had
a charming way of blushing, deep and hot, the color rising like a
tidal way over her delicate skin.

“
It’s okay,” she informed him. Her voice
was low, her posture stiff. “I stopped at the drugstore on the way
home and got an emergency contraceptive.” She met his gaze, then
quickly glanced down at the pens and pads neatly arranged over the
desktop. “I never intended to keep you in suspense, the way I
threatened. It was anger talking. I hope you understand
that.”

He gave
her a casual nod. “Thanks for letting me know. And
on the health front,” he added quietly, “you can trust me, there’s
nothing you need to worry about.”

Another
terse silence enveloped the room. It seemed to
Nick that something more ought to be said, so agreement reached to
push them from the awkward no man’s land into a clearly defined
territory of enemies or friends. As he let his gaze slide over her
bent head and slender shoulders, his body taunted him by
tightening.

Friends or
enemies
, his mind
whispered.
Or lovers?

****

Crimson stared at the charts and
gr
aphs that littered the
conference table. Peter Tomlinson, sitting beside her, had tugged
his tie loose and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Full of restless
energy, he fidgeted in the seat, his gangly limbs making jerky
motions as he talked. “As you can see, in the last quarter the
revenue is down seven percent and the costs are up…”

Crimson
flung another helpless glance at Nick, who sat
hunched behind the pale wood desk, engrossed in setting up her new
laptop and connecting it to the corporate network. Why was he not
listening? She had expected him to guide her through the
information people were throwing at her.

A sense of defeat
gripped her as it dawned on her that he
might have no genuine interest in helping her. He might simply want
a ringside seat for witnessing her failure.

“
Nick, could you come over and look at
these figures?” she called out.

“
That’s your
job.” He got up and walked out of the room. On the
doorstep, he turned around. “Peter, instead of focusing on the
accounts, why don’t you talk Crimson through your team? Her first
job should be to get to know the employees.”

“
Of course.” Eager to please, brimming with
sincerity, the finance director pulled out an organization chart.
“I have four staff in finance, two in IT, and one in
HR…”

Crimson
exhaled a sigh of relief as her eyes fell on the
sheet of paper filled with rows of small photographs. People.
Something real. Tangible, familiar. She concentrated on memorizing
their names and faces, and each person’s role in the
company.

B
y the time Nick returned, Peter’s hour was up. Jorge
Fernandez, the marketing director, came in next. Surprisingly
young, in his late twenties, he was dressed in immaculate black
slacks and a pale gray silk shirt. Glossy dark hair and smooth
olive skin completed the image of a glamorous, fashion conscious
male.

He
dumped a stack of files on the table. “I need an urgent
decision on funding for an advertising campaign. With the
recession, we’ve lost business to more affordable alternatives.
With the price tag of a quarter of a million, the Constantine
Panther is twice or three times more expensive than some of our
competition. We no longer have a waiting list.”

“
Did we have one before?” Crimson
asked.

“
It peaked at six years in the nineties.”
Jorge shuffled the brochures of long-nosed cars on the table. “To
drum up new orders, I want to take the Constantine Spur to a motor
industry fair in Detroit, and I need your approval.”

“
Constantine Spur?” she echoed.

“
The car that hangs on the glass platform
in the showroom,” he explained. “It was the first Constantine model
ever produced. In 1923, it participated in the first Le Mans 24
hour race ever held. The Constantine Panther replaced the design in
1956, when Constantine Racing ceased to operate. The Panther is the
car sold to the public. We no longer produce race cars.”

Crimson
studied Nick from the corner of her eye. His
posture had stiffened at the mention of the Spur. She was pretty
sure that he would refuse to offer an opinion, but the stubborn,
combative streak inside her wanted his lack of cooperation forced
out into the open.

“
What do you think, Nick?” she
asked.

He gave her a blank look. “It’s your
decision.”

She bi
t her lip, stopping the angry retort from bursting out.
“Then, perhaps, if you have no other contribution to make, you
might like to get me a fresh cup of coffee.” Crimson held up the
mug that Anna, her assistant, had given her as a welcome
present—white bone china, with “BOSS” spelled in red letters on the
side.

“
Sure.” Nick unfolded his athletic body
from behind the desk and ambled over to collect her empty mug.
“Anything for you, Jorge?” he asked with a casual friendliness that
served to emphasize her bristling anger.

The handsome young man smiled.
“I’m good.” He twisted around
in the seat to face Nick. “My guys are itching to meet you. Ian
Simmons knew you at General Motors. He coordinates trade fairs.
Katsuro Yamada is responsible for export sales. He remembers you
from the two seasons you did in the Japanese Formula 3000. Patrick
Letterman, my third staff member, takes care of domestic
marketing.” Jorge directed his attention back to Crimson. “Patrick
is developing the advertising campaign that needs your
approval.”

“
I’ll need more details,” Crimson said
stiffly.

It was becoming clearer by the minute how
out of place she was. How ignorant,
how lacking in skills and experience. Even the
small talk went over her head.

Things
turned out no better with Hank Rasmussen, who was in charge
of design and production. A big, burly man in his late forties, he
was unapologetically masculine, with steel-blue eyes and graying
fair hair in a crew cut. He seemed ill at ease with her. Crimson
couldn’t tell if he resented her more for being female, or for
being ill-qualified for the job.

He added to her information
overload
with technical
drawings for an improved fuel injection system. By now, fatigue and
tension vibrated through Crimson, making her feel out of control.
When dancing, a similar state at the end of a practice session had
been a clear warning sign to stop before she collapsed, and she
took it to mean the same now.

She stood
, offered her hand to Hank. “Thank
you.”

H
ank lumbered to his feet. “There’s one more thing, Miss
Mills. The order book. If we don’t get more firm orders by the end
of the month, I’ll have to put the factory on a four day week.” He
glanced at Nick who was typing away on the computer behind the
desk. “Or, we could build cars into inventory, hoping to sell them
later. I know it’s not something…” He paused, then burst out, “Oh,
heck. Nick will explain to you what it means.”